


Maker’s Mark

by SpaceWall



Series: Maedhros Remade [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (accidentally), (not as bad as that tag implies), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Fourth Age, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Past Torture, Reincarnation, Road Trips, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 00:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17436461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: Ereinion Gil-galad meets a new family member, and finally, finally, manages to DTR with an old flame.





	Maker’s Mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FactorialRabbits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/gifts).



> TW/CW: Celebrimbor’s canonical torture and PTSD. But, seriously, this is a fluffy fic where Gil-galad and Curufin oddly bond and he DTRs with Celebrimbor.

Gil-galad guided his horse to a full halt when he saw the elf, grey-robbed, walking along the side of the road. For any of the newly returned, he would have offered a ride, but for this one, he could only stare. The cut of his jaw, the way his jet-black hair fell over half of his face. It was all so familiar, but off. The stance was too proud, and when he looked up at Gil-galad, his eyes were empty of recognition. There were only two people it could have been, and one of them would have meant the end of the world, probably. Thus, it could only have been, 

“Curufinwë Atarinkë.” 

Curufin’s stare was hard. “Who’s asking?” 

“Ereinion Gil-galad Artanáro. I do not believe that you and I have met. By law, I am the son and heir of Fingon and Maedhros.” It was true, if not the whole truth. But the whole truth was only known by six people, and three of them were dead. 

Curufin raised an eyebrow. “The hair tells a different story.” 

Everyone always had to ask about the hair. “I said by law, not by blood.” 

“And by blood?” 

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow in return. “What makes you think that is any of your business?”

“You claim to be my nephew,” Curufin pointed out. “I think that makes it some of my business.” 

“Maedhros does not even know the truth of my blood.” It was an odd fact of the thing, but true. Fingon had been remarkably protective of Gil-galad’s parentage; it was one of his greater virtues, how little he cared that Gil-galad was anything other than the child of his body. 

“So.” Curufin crossed his arms defensively. “What happened to the war? And the Silmarils? And-”

“And Celebrimbor.” For the first time, Gil-galad thought he caught a glimpse of vulnerability in Curufin’s eyes. 

“Yes,” he agreed, voice so tense it sounded as though it might snap, “and Celebrimbor.”

However Curufin had come to be here, he had no memory, no knowledge, of the part ages of the world. Having only recently observed Celegorm Fëanorion’s return, Gil-galad thought he had a sense of how hard this might be. Someone would have to tell him how much time had passed, someone would have to tell him of the Havens of Sirion, and Eärendil, and Maedhros’s suicide. But for Curufin it was worse than that. Someone would have to tell him about Celebrimbor’s death, and Gil-galad thought that if it was Celebrimbor himself who had to do it, it might destroy him. Even now, Celebrimbor rarely spoke of what had happened, and almost never to people who hadn’t been there at the time. To tell someone like his father would have been an unconscionable thing to ask of him. And so, the duty fell to Gil-galad, who would have fallen on his own spear before he let Celebrimbor suffer a second more for their stupid, idiotic, foolish mistakes. And they were their mistakes. Gil-galad had failed him, as much as Celebrimbor himself had failed. Perhaps more so. Celebrimbor, at least, had redeemed his lack of caution with strength in the face of torture. Gil-galad had failed to protect a friend, and had gotten him killed because of it.

“He is in Valinor now,” Gil-galad informed. “Most everyone is, except your father, Maglor, my parents-” Hah, all six. “- and the children of Arafinwë, other than Finrod. More than six thousand years have passed since your death. Almost all of us who came here came the short way, and nobody remembers their time in Mandos. Welcome back from being dead, by the way. Arafinwë is High Hing here, and I was the last High King in Middle Earth, until I died an age ago. We won the war against Morgoth with the help of the Valar; the Silmarils are gone, scattered in sky and sea and below the earth, and Sauron still troubled us for another couple ages, though I have money on Fingon and Maedhros doing something about that soon. If you are not averse to sharing a horse, I can take you to see whoever you would like.”

If Curufin’s arms hadn’t already been crossed, he certainly would have crossed them. “Do you rehearse that speech?”

“No. But Celegorm only returned a few weeks ago, so I have been thinking about it, I suppose.”

“Why that order of rebirths? And why so long a wait?” 

Gil-galad shrugged. “Ask Námo, and if he actually tells you, write to me about it. None of the rest of us know.” He guided his horse closer to Curufin. “Now, do you want me to take you to Celebrimbor or not?”

“I thought you would take me wherever I wanted to go,” Curufin said, raising his eyebrow again. 

“Oh, I would. But we both know Celebrimbor is the person who matters the most. And if he is anything less, then you are clearly a fool, and I ought not take you anywhere.”

Curufin lowered his arms and eyebrows, gaining a thoroughly predatory smile. “Good sense, that. What is my son to you?” 

If only Gil-galad knew. “He was my friend, and my vassal, and I buried him. Now, he is my friend, I hope.” 

“How did he die?” 

“Sauron tricked him, and when Celebrimbor figured out what had happened, he gave away powerful weapons against him, to me, Círdan, and Galadriel. Sauron wanted to know where they were, but Celebrimbor refused to tell him, even to his dying breath.” Curufin sucked in a ragged breath of his own. “He would tell you that he failed the men, and the dwarves. Do us all a favour and ignore that. He does not understand how few people could have kept even one secret from Sauron, where Celebrimbor kept three.”

The anger in Curufin’s eyes was a perfect mirror for Gil-galad’s own. “Take me to my son, Ereinion Gil-galad Artanáro.”

On their ride to the Halls of Aulë, Gil-galad filled Curufin in on the end of the Sons of Fëanor. As Elrond’s friend, Gil-galad’s perspective on those who had survived Sirion was coloured by the gentle, empathetic and courageous person his friend had been raised to be. Celebrían, he was sure, would have said the same. They knew exactly who Elrond counted as his parents, and were glad for him.

Curufin coped well with one bit of ill news after another, after another. As Gil-galad had thought, the news of Maedhros’s suicide hit him particularly hard. 

“He could have died,” Curufin said, voice odd. 

“He did die.”

“No,” Curufin corrected, “I mean-” He cut himself off, and was silent for a long time. Gil-galad looked over his shoulder, and found him staring into empty space. 

“You mean he could have died permanently. Like a mortal.”

Curufin shook his head. “That would be impossible. I have no idea why I said it.”

Gil-galad thought he knew. Those who had returned often said things they did not mean or know consciously. Particularly those fresh from Mandos. None of them could do it when prompted, but unprompted, it was an observable phenomenon. 

“I doubt very much you had no reason for saying that. Only, you cannot remember why. It happens to the best of us.”

Gil-galad’s most embarrassing lapse had been kissing Celebrimbor the first time they’d seen each other after, and neither of them having any idea why. But he wasn’t about to tell Curufin that. Ever. 

“I hate not being able to remember,” Curufin announced, after a time. “Knowing I must have been there, but not knowing who I was. Like there was another version of me, and he died, and I replaced him. The old me.” 

“In time, I think you will find that you are sort of a combination of both.” 

Curufin humphed. “Maybe. I do not know how I feel about that.” 

Given there were two of them on the horse, Gil-galad insisted they stop and let her rest. He set up camp, and gave Curufin a change of his clothes. They fit terribly, but were still a sight better than the robes of the newly returned. 

“Do you have anything to wear?” Curufin asked. He meant jewellery. The Noldor, by custom, wore jewels as they wore clothes.

“Not much,” Gil-galad told him, but he pulled off a bracelet and a hair clip, and handed them to him. He still had an earring and his signet ring, which was enough. 

Curufin, as any of his family would have done, checked the insides for a maker’s mark. The bracelet was Telerin work, a gift from Orodreth, but the hair clip was Celebrimbor’s. As all his work, it was fine, sapphires curling into a form that was something like a wave. Curufin clutched it so tight that Gil-galad could see the sharp edges digging into his flesh. 

“He still works.” 

Gil-galad smiled. “He does. In fact, I am in the process of taking you to the Aulendili. Celebrimbor is living with your grandfather’s people, working and studying there.” 

Curufin touched the mother-of-pearl inlay along the top of the cuff. He fidgeted it around, mindlessly. “What about the others, who are in Valinor? Where are they?”

Gil-galad filled him in, as the sun set, and split what food he had on him. Then, throat sore from talking, he convinced Curufin to allow them both some sleep. They woke at the crack of dawn, and carried on their way. Fortunately, Aulë and Námo lived not altogether far from one another- on this side of the mountain, at least- and so, each taking turns walking to allow the horse some rest, they arrived by nightfall. Like all cities of Valinor, these dwellings were unwalled, but merchants set up along the main road, which created a certain semblance of order. Because interior Valinor was oddly communal and not particularly interested in rank, Gil-galad went up the the first merchant he saw, and said, 

“Excuse me, could you point me in the direction of Mahtan? I am a member of the family, from Beleriand.”

She didn’t even ask how, exactly, he was a family member. Instead, her directions were clear and concise. 

“Asking for directions was pointless,” Curufin advised, when they were standing in front of Mahtan’s house. “He has not moved since I was here last. Good grief.” 

Gil-galad stepped up the door, and knocked once, hard. 

“Will Celebrimbor be here?” Curufin demanded, suddenly.

Gil-galad shrugged. “Probably not. He was looking into buying a house of his own, and it is only just the end of the work day. But Mahtan will know where to find him, if anyone does.” 

The door opened wide to reveal a dark skinned elleth with a shock of red hair standing right up on her head. When she saw Curufin, she shrieked, and disappeared back into the house.

Curufin laughed. “My second cousin, I think. Something like that.” 

Then, Mahtan appeared in the doorway, and he saw Curufin, and Curufin saw him. He pushed past Gil-galad to pull his grandson into a fierce embrace. Aulë’s follower was a tall elf, bearded and broad. He had a rugged demeanour, and seemed to hug Curufin as his he was trying to smother him. 

“Oof!” Curufin complained, “you hug like a murderer, grandfather.” 

“So do you,” Mahtan told him, but seemed to relax his grip a little. His voice was deep, in a jolly, pleasant sort of way. 

Curufin pulled away, slowly. “Where can I find Teleperinquar? I need to see him.” 

Mahtan crossed his arms over his chest. “And does he need to see you?” 

“Yes,” Gil-galad cut in. “Yes, he does. I have already given Curufin all the warning he needs.” 

Mahtan gave him an odd look, but he told Curufin where to find his son, and allowed him to rush off before he turned and clapped Gil-galad on the shoulder. “Now, Artanáro, that was your name, was it not? Nerdanel told me about you. Come inside, and have some tea. A fine name, that. Is it your mother name, or your father name?” 

It was going to be a very long tea.

He spent the night at Mahtan’s. His horse was tired, and so was he. Curufin didn’t return, which Gil-galad could only assume was a good sign. Everything seemed to be peaceful until he was woken with a thump in the middle of the night. 

“Sorry!” Celebrimbor dropped the rest of the way through the window to land on the floor. 

“Be sorry,” Gil-galad commanded, and leaned over to light the lamp on the bedside table. The light revealed Celebrimbor’s smile and the messy braids falling around his face. He looked so like his father, but there was something else about him. When he looked at the world, it was not with pride, but with a genuine curiosity. In that purest of elven traditions, he loved it.

“Believe me,” he advised, “I am. If only because my head hurts.” 

“Poor you, injured sneaking through my window in the middle of the night. Was there any reason for that, by the way? Or was it just a fit of whimsy?” 

Getting to his feet, Celebrimbor told him, “I came to thank you. I have a sneaking suspicion that Atto has no intention of letting me out of his waking sight for the next few days, so I thought I would come tell you now.” 

“Well, thanks are appreciated but unnecessary. All I did was give him some directions.” 

Plopping himself down on the end of the bed, Celebrimbor said, “and brought him here personally. And whatever you said about Sauron- no point in denying it, I know you said something- he has been exceptionally well behaved. So thank you.The idea of telling him, of having to tell him that I failed-”

“Nobody who handled one of the three could say that you failed. I was there, remember.” 

Celebrimbor sighed deeply. It was a tired old argument, for the both of them. “I hope you told him the truth. Not… whatever it is that you seem to believe.”

Gil-galad pushed himself up on his elbows. “What I ‘seem to believe’ is the truth. You are too biased to see it, but I have the luxury of being more objective in these matters.”

“Biased in knowing my own failure? I think not.”

If only there were someone who could have made him understand. “Biased because you hold yourself to a higher standard than you would ever hold anyone else. Someday, I hope you can see that you would never have asked the same of me. Or of Celebrían. Is she a failure, Celebrimbor?”

He inhaled, shocked. “Ereinion!”

“You know she is not, and never has been. You know that. Stop expecting any more of yourself than you do of her.”

Celebrimbor fisted his hands in the blankets. “It is not something I chose, you know. I cannot just decide to stop because you said so.”

“I know,” Gil-galad told him. He pushed his blankets off, and patted the spot beside him. “Someone just needs to remind you, sometimes. Come here.”

Celebrimbor kicked off his boots, shucked away his jacket, and crawled into bed beside Gil-galad. He pulled the blankets back, over them both, and let Gil-galad wrap his arms around him. He was cool, from the night air, and the smell of smoke and metal lingered on his skin. As close as they lay together, Gil-galad could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, could feel their chests rising and falling just a half-beat out of synchronicity. 

“I missed you,” Gil-galad murmured, into a faceful of braids. 

“I missed you too.” Celebrimbor slid down a little, so the top of his head was tucked just under Gil-galad’s chin. “How did you convince my father to trust you?”

“I told him I was Maedhros’s son.”

Celebrimbor let out a choked noise of surprise. “You are?”

Gil-galad couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Do I look like a lanky redhead to you? No. But Fingon is my father, by all the laws of the Noldor, and Maedhros is his husband under the same laws, therefore…”

“I see.”

Celebrimbor had tensed in his arms, going still. Gil-galad needed to do something about that. “I’m no closer related to you by blood than if I were Fingon’s son in truth.” 

Celebrimbor relaxed. “You should not need to tell me who your father was, Gil. I have lived all your life without knowing.”

“I know, but that was before… this.” 

“And what is this?”

If only Gil-galad knew. “Important to me. Maybe the most important relationship of my adult life.” 

“Gil-”

Sometimes, there was nothing to be done but a leap of faith. “I love you, Celebrimbor. More than a friend and other than a brother. I love you.” 

Celebrimbor seemed to struggle and twist in his arms, and Gil-galad let him go, sadly, only to find warm lips pressed hard against his own. He grabbed a fistful a braids, and held Celebrimbor tight to him, resting his other hand on his back. 

I love you too. 

Celebrimbor’s mind was warm against his, and his clever touch prevented them from having to stop to do anything other than inhale. 

Celebrimbor. Brilliant-beautiful-brave-mine. 

Gil-galad. Ereinion. Artanáro. Noble-loyal-fierce-generous-

Yours.

Mine. 

Gil-galad reached deep into his memories, and showed him Fingon, speaking of his parentage. Son of Angrod, brother to Orodreth. Artanáro, with the name of his father’s line within his own. Scion of kings. 

This, finally, made Celebrimbor pull back. “Seriously?” 

Gil-galad nodded. “Serious as you like.” 

“Who knows?”

Gil-galad considered. “My birth parents, obviously. Orodreth. Fingon, but not Maedhros. Me. You.” 

“I would say I was surprised that Maedhros had just adopted a random child without asking about his providence, but, well, look at Elrond.” 

Gil-galad cuffed him. “I have excellent providence, thank you very much.” 

“You know I would have wanted you even if you had not told me, right?” Celebrimbor was startlingly earnest. “You could have been born the son of paupers, or sprung fully formed from Varda’s bosom; I care about what you made yourself, not what you were born.” 

“Yes, but I could have been your full cousin. That would have been terribly awkward.” 

“And which of my uncles is supposed to have had this illicit bastard? Because Maedhros is deathly loyal. If you had said you were his son by blood, I would rightly have called you a liar.”

A little teasing, perhaps, was in order. “Well, by my looks, Celegorm is the best bet.” 

Celebrimbor buried his face in Gil-galad’s neck, and laughed. They stayed there until Mahtan and Curufin barged in to report Celebrimbor missing the next morning, and it all got very awkward very quickly from there.


End file.
